Fear
by SkyeSoul
Summary: Contractverse. House's POV. House's time spent in the hospital and before the legal proceedings, when he had to be alert for any sign of danger. He struggles with the stress of oppressive memories and untrustworthy friends. But they are there for him.
1. Rays of Sun

**Part of the contractverse. Read DIY Sheep's 'The Contract' Then cut out everything from the scene this story starts out at. **

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House sat, irons on his legs and chains binding his deformed wrists, staring at Wilson.

He could visibly see Wilson 'caring.' He didn't care, merely noted how even under threat of death from Thompson Wilson's personality still shined through. What he didn't see was the different was Wilson was looking, the different way the random prisonguards and policemen (From New Jersey Defense!) were looking at him. All he could think about was how they had got him, got Jimmy.

'I was so careful. I always listened, no matter what! Why did they take Jimmy, why? Can he even see, does he even know what's going to happen to him? How can he just stand there?!'

House, being House, ran his mind into overdrive. Until, Wilson said,

"Nice shiner, who'd you irritate this time?" Shakily.

It was such a normal, Wilson-ish statement that House responded automatically, even after years and years and years trained to be silent.

"Oh, it's all the rage you know, must have prison accessory. You wouldn't believe the doors I walk through to stay fashionable." House's voice sounded rough and scratchy after years of disuse, screaming abandoned once he'd met solitary. And, of couse, being stabbed in the voicebox didn't help.

House answered because he'd supposed Wilson just got dropped into this situation and didn't know what was going on, which was why he was looking tentative (which was not actually the reason) and why Wilson was acting so normal. Thompson's lawyer hadn't told him to tell Wilson, so he had to act normal. Maybe, maybe, he'd be forgiven for talking.

Yeah, right. Not a chance in hell of that.

House knew he was gonna get some serious hell for talking, some _serious _hell, but it was noting compared to what he knew Jimmy to be getting.

Oh, Jimmy, I'm so so sorry, even though sorry doesn't mean anything, as my father taught me. I apologize for failing.

House's features creased in primal fear for himself and true fear for Wilson. A tear leaked out of House's eye as he accepted that he had probably failed in his task, as Wilson was always meant to be last.

"Oh, House, it's okay, you're safe now. He's not going to get you, not ever, I promise."

Wilson had walked around the desk and was crouching low in front of House, who was shaking badly. Wilson went to put his hands on House's shoulder, which he decided not to do when House flinched a foot back in a steel chair.

House, still shaking because of Wilson's proximity, was staring wide-eyed at Wilson. How could Wilson know, unless Thompson told him? And then, he would know they're not safe! Obviously, Thompson was using Wilson to trick House into security and to break the rules. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. House knew he wasn't dreaming or hallucinating, his dreams and hallucinations told him when he was doing that.

"You don't believe me." Wilson said. He didn't sound in the least bit betrayed, only saddened. He pleaded "Please House, when have I ever lied to you? Well, besides 'for your own good.' I doubt lying like this would be for your good, you know that better than I do."

House again stared at Wilson. He seemed to be doing a lot of that. Wilson was right, _logically _he was safe, but he couldn't take that chance. He had said goodbye to pain-free logic when he signed that contract. But still, it gave them years of life. It was worth it.

"Thompson was shot. Found dead, in his apartment. They found the tapes, House, that Thompson kept. I'm sure you remember there being a cameraman. You have a court order giving you permission to be in the infirmary. You're going to be free tomorrow, to come home with me. I've got a house with a spare bedroom now, I can set it up with medical equipment and help take care of you for a bit. You know you need it, don't even protest in your head, which I know you are doing." Wilson was rapidly gaining back his usual demeanor, if not his facial composure. The worry and admiration was leaking out of him in his face and his voice.

House had to admit, it made sense. He just couldn't take that chance though, no, he couldn't.

House saw the policeman motion and he involuntarily flinched. Again. When did he start doing that? He felt his PVC cane thrust into his hand and felt himself being lifted up to be helped to walk. Leaning heavily on Wilson, he ascended up some stairs from the interrogation room, heaving his leg irons up slowly and excruciatingly painfully. House peered at himself as he walked up into the increasingly bright light. He hadn't seen himself in years, been in the dark being abused. He was heavily scarred, scar tissue covering his whole body. He was examining his spiderwebbed hand when he reached the top of the stairs and reached a beautiful sight.

A window.

It didn't have a particularly striking view, just another cement wall with another window and some dying grass in between and a bare sight of the partly cloudy sky, but he could see the sun. He could see the orange light glint off of the rebar reinforcements of the window.

House knew either he was free or they were all dead _really_ soon. Except him, but if they died he could kill himself. But not without seeing the sun.

House veered him and Wilson off course, right up to the window, which Wilson didn't seem to mind even if he was confused at first. House pressed his face right up to the glass and looked down. Each speck of dirt had texture he hadn't seen in years. He saw some green, healthy grass growing in it. House looked up at the sun. He felt it bathing him in it's warmth, and laughed.

it was small, quieter than you thought a laugh could be, but it was there. And, considering the situation, huge.

House pressed his squashed hand up to the top of the window pointing to and still staring at the sun, said,

"I'd forgotten what it looked like."

And he was still smiling, and suddenly so was Wilson, and the prisonguard and the policemen were all smiling. Wilson, after a few second after House had lowered his hand, said,

"I promise there's a window by your infirmary bed, I saw it. You really do need to go to the infirmary."

House thought Wilson was being pushy, but didn't mention that. He could always mention it later after they were dead or he was free. They started their slow meander down the short hallway. The Infirmary was the farthest doorway on the other side of the hallway, but it was a slightly busy hallway for a prison. He saw one of the inmates he incessantly annoyed before he was told not to. He was cellmates, and almost friends with the man. He had run a company that sold drugs, so House wasn't adverse to him. He knew House's story, and even though he had thought House dead, he smiled. He heard occasionally of people coming back from execution by injection, heard of cases like House. House smiled right on back.

Wilson was a little bothered by House being friendly with another 6 foot tall, hulking man with tattoos of skulls on his shaved head and neck.

"Who was that?" Wilson asked.

House answered without looking at Wilson, or showing any emotion at all.

"Just a friend, Wilson, just a friend."

"Well, I do wonder what kind of friend he would be. I also expect you to tell me." Wilson said mockingly sternly.

House was surprised he'd gone back to bantering. Was he making a genuine effort? He thought so. Did it matter? No. Because he was still afraid of every move someone made, of the belt Wilson and the policemen wore, of the guns on their belt, of the tasers, hell, he was scared of the IV needle. Wilson's playful bantering wasn't going to rid him of the fear that was going to plague him always and forever, however long that may be. House's face just stayed stony and blank.

But Jimmy was right there, smiling above him, the IV needle didn't hurt him, the policemen and prisonguards weren't Thompson's men and they weren't hurting him. He glanced over to the IV bag.

Water.

Maybe, maybe it really was over. I mean, there were in a fairly public place, orderlies crawling around, what could happen? He actually knew some of the orderlies had worked for Thompson. Crap, they could be the ones to kill them!

House glanced around worriedly and frantically, beginning to panic. What if that wasn't water, that was some painful poison again!? He ripped the IV needle out of his arm, Wilson growing confused. House's vision began to blur and he closed his eyes as he fought the strong arms holding him down gently, ignoring Wilson's voice telling him it was going to be alright. It wasn't going to be alright, it was poison! Thompson was poisoning him!

"Poison! No, no poison!" House had began shouting, desperate to tell Wilson the men were going to poison him.

Wilson grabbed the bag down from the IV pole. "House, it's not poison, it's water, I promise. Look."

House peeked open his eyes. Wilson was sitting on the bed with House, policemen around House holding him down with some effort. House stopped flailing, but he started hyperventilating worse. The bag did indeed say water, yes, but what if it was poison? He looked distrustingly at Wilson, waiting for response.

Wait, if it was poison, wouldn't he be being ripped apart with pain by now? As if to prove his point, Wilson unscrewed the bag and drank from it, and it didn't burn his mouth on the way down.

House, albeit unwillingly, let them get him set up in the hospital bed, but his eyes were wide open to any perceived threat, existent or nonexistent. This just proved that to himself he was always going to be afraid of things that weren't there. But he needed proof he was safe, so he could begin to trust again.

"Jimmy?" House said very, very quietly, almost nonexistent. "Am I really, really safe?"

Wilson looked over at House. "Yes. We'll keep you safe. Me and Cuddy, Chase and Foreman, even your mum and dad.."

In that moment, in the connection of soft brown and hardened blue, they acknowledged that the recovery process would be the longest and hardest thing almost anyone had ever attempted.

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**This folks is as of now, a one shot. It does not necessarily have to stay that way… muhahaha…. Review! V**


	2. Absence

**I've decided to continue it! But there's no telling when my chapter output suddenly drops off of the face of the planet and then I never ever ever update it again. I'm also ending up to be sticking to canon. Can as 'The Contract' has it, and mostly to 'Exigencies.' Except this is wholly and completely from House's point of view, and he was present (sort of) during the catatonia except he doesn't remember it. Odd, huh?**

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Wilson had to leave.

Of course, he'd promised he'd come back every day even though it was a 2 and a half hour drive from Princeton. Wilson said he'd get a hotel, that he didn't really care. He said he had to help House get everything sorted out anyways, with the legalities and all of it. Even if he didn't have House to help there was still the part he played in this whole mess. Wilson knew House needed a friend, and more than that.

But, Wilson still had to leave.

Everything seemed okay while Wilson was here. The horror of Thompson seemed somehow far off, as if Wilson was protecting him. He knew a middle-aged (40) year old Jimmy boy wonder oncologist could hardly protect him from the goons Thompson had hired, but he felt just a little bit safe. And frankly, he could run with that. He could run with just about anything for now.

They had a police guard, the Agent Matthews that had found him, stationed with him that night in the hospital. House actually wouldn't let anyone else be by him, because he was being so damn untrusting. But the impression he, and everyone else, got, was that after what he did, he got to be so damn whatever he wanted.

He hoped that would wear off, though. Frankly, he didn't see himself as that great of a man, as he believed contrary to what he had spouted that anyone would do the same in his position and he was a selfish bastard in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hoped that one day, years off, he could be that untouchable doctor again.

Though he really did know that that was never going to happen, not again, and he'd die a pitiful man in pain. At least he wouldn't die bloodied and bare.

House looked around the room slowly. He didn't think he'd be getting to sleep that easily tonight. His men could be around that doorframe, could be one of the nurses, hell one of the other inmates could bust his way in and rough him up. Not like that hadn't happened before, he doubted anyone would stop them. Matthews was only here because he had to be, not because he wanted to be. House could feel the ever present fear burbling up again like some unwanted beast. He did his best to appear not afraid, so that nobody would notice and they wouldn't do anything. They only did things when he was scared.

Maybe he should just sleep. He knew he could sleep on-command when his bones weren't broken, because he rarely ever had a real chance to. He'd just sleep it off and wake up in the morning, having never disturbed anyone.

……

_He woke tied to the chair, bound but not gagged. His wrists, arms, legs, and ankles bound to a chair bolted to the middle of the floor in his 'cosy' solitary cell with thick gray chains. The lawyer, standing next to Boot Boy, held up a switchblade real close to House's voicebox. _

_"I heard you've been screaming." He said silkily. "The others tell me you've been screaming in your sleep. Screaming when we come in for our _dues_ too. We can't have that, oh, no, that's alerting someone. That's against the contract, Greg." He looked at House, a 'put up your best defense' look. House knew he wouldn't be reprimanded for protesting right now. The sick lawyer loved to hear his pitiful whinging. _

_House seized his chance. "No, please, I'm sorry, I'll be good. I'll be quiet! I'll-" _

_But at that moment the switchblade ran down from his chin across his throat all the way to his collarbone, dragging slowly and chopping a thick, rough line. House tried to cry out but couldn't, because his voicebox had been mangled just like intended. All he managed to do was cause himself more pain._

_"You won't be talking now, Greg, you won't be making any noise at all." The lawyer said with a glint in his eye and nasty smile playing across his features. _

_House was untied and unceremoniously pushed to the ground as the lawyer strode out, Boot Boy giving him a complementary kick on his way out. House bled out on to the concrete floor, thinking he might be bleeding to death right here in this cell. But he couldn't do that, Jimmy and Boss and Blackie and Wombat and Mum and Dad, they'd all die. He couldn't even remember who they were but he knew that none of them, even dad, should die. Nobody deserved to die but him, because he was scum, but only the good can run away from pain. _

_House grabbed his shirt and began to sloppily blot up the blood, trying to make as little noise and move as little as possible. As soon as he had gotten the shirt nestled up against his neck, he passed out. _

……

House startled awake, only sign that he was doing so was eyes flying open in a panic. He had been trained to wake up completely silent and still, because someone might hurt him again if he didn't. He never thrashed during his nightmares nor give any sign he was having them.

House looked around for any sign of the ever present attackers before remembering; He was saved, if at least for the moment. It couldn't be permanent, he couldn't be sure, but it might have happened.

He looked at the time. 6:30. Wilson would be getting here in an hour and 45 minutes, right? That was enough time to be okay waiting. He'd be alone, but he'd be alright, right?

Damn. Matthews was sleeping. Someone could get him now again, come in and silently break his arm. Silently slit his throat to prevent him talking, or communicating what they'd done. oh, god, he'd never thought of that. They'd try to kill him now that he was able to do something back to them. They'd come in with the poison or the knife and they'd silently suck all his life out of him until there was nothing more.

House grabbed at the IV bag in a panic. _Water_. Why didn't they have him on any meds? He squished the bag; not viscous, meaning just water. Whatever meds were in there probably consisted of nutrients. Or dissolved aspirin, but not enough to kill him. That'd be visible.

House laid alone on the hospital bed trying to think around the fear. They'd imbued the fear of god in the form of Thompson in him. He was unconsciously convinced that overtime he saw a person they'd hurt him, and that everywhere he'd look would be that lawyer with an addition to the contract. That when people laid him in a bed they'd strap him and really kill him this time. They'd really inject him and stop his heart and lungs and heed feel their last beat, his last breath, and has he'd die he'd remember the lives he'd failed to save. Jimmy, Lisa, Eric, Robert, Mum, Dad. He'd failed them. They'd all meet Allison and then he'd have some explaining to do.

House looked at the clock. 6:45. Oh, come on, he wasn't going to make it that long. Somebody was going to come, they always did. He never knew what time, he never could keep track anyways. Just knew the squeaky cart was 8:00, 12:00, 5:00. That was it, it was always it. Always bringing (or not bringing, in his case,) The tasteless mushy slop that they fed everyone. He couldn't even eat it half the time because Boot Boy had kicked half his teeth out. He had to lick it, like a dog.

_Boot Boy came storming into the cell, brandishing his spiky boots like a weapon, which they were. He always seemed to come alone, while the 12 other nameless goons came together in masses. _

_House was just beginning to eat his food having successfully crawled over to it with his broken leg. He looked up at Boot Boy, still eating. Boot Boy seemed to be watching him with great amusement. Right at House's third bite, he dumped the bowl everywhere on the dirty, dusty, bloody floor. The beige typical mush speed and flowed like an amoeba. _

_Boot boy kicked dust and blood onto the food and smeared it on to the tip of his shoe, and shoved it up to House's mouth. _

_"Eat it." He commanded. "Eat it like the dog, or rather, _prisoner_, that you are, 502." He said, his crooked smile thin, wide and leering. _

_House licked up the food while not looking up once, and he was grateful for every bite. _

_"Look at me." House tilted his head up slowly. Boot Boy's eyes were full of delight, an evil, sadistic delight. Boot Boy kicked him in the jaw, leaving it broken, and left him with the dirty, bloody pile of mush. _

House came back to himself to find himself crying silently curled up in a ball. 'Pathetic', he thought to himself. 'Pathetic I should be crying. I'm not even allowed to cry, I'm just a dumb convict. Or rather, a dumb soon-to-be ex-convict. The fact remained that I got an innocent woman, Allison killed, and that I am worthless. Worthless convict druggies don't cry, they aren't allowed to show their dumb emotions.'

House sniffled and looked around, making sure he didn't disturb anyone. His pillow was wet, so he turned it over. 7:15. Oh good, Wilson should be here any second. Rather stupid that that should relieve him to the degree it did, but he didn't mind at least feeling a little safer.

All of a sudden a figure showed up in his field of vision and said "Hey!"

House jumped back about a mile, and threw his deformed arms up to protect himself. After a couple seconds he looked to see Wilson, standing there and looking shocked. His eyes were raised and his face was set in a position of sudden sympathy.

"Oh my goodness, House, sorry for startling you." Wilson said quietly. House's heart was still racing a bit from being startled. Wilson noticed House eyes. red rimmed from crying, and asked the obvious.

"Were you crying?"

House glowered at Wilson, attempting to send the signal that he never wanted to talk about it. Ever. Luckily Wilson saw fit to leave it be, as he had remembered just then that House had plenty to be crying over, but he suspected it would be brought up again.

"Hey, I'm going to only be able to stay here until 7:40, because I'm going to have to meet with your lawyer. Since I am still your proxy after all of this time, I have to take care of the legal stuff until you're out of here. Which they said would be in about a month." Wilson looked at House.

"Okay." House rasped out. House then looked at the ceiling. "Thanks." Wilson deserved it. He stood by House's side and agreed to be here every day, by the bed of a convict who was chained and bolted to the bed. By the bed of a man who killed a woman.

Wilson's eyebrows flew to the ceiling. "What for? You deserve this at least, House, completely. Anyone who suffers 5 years of unending torture to save their friend's life deserves have said friend sit by their bed and help them."

"So you don't actually want to be here?" Wilson's mouth popped open. "You're just here because of my neediness? That's Wilson for you, but then I don't deserve even this so..."

"You do deserve this! but I'm not here to thrive on your neediness. You're my friend, House, and I'd do anything for you. Anything at all." Wilson said pleadingly. "I love you House, I really do."

House looked suspiciously at Wilson. How did he know that Wilson felt this and didn't just say it to weaken him or something to that effect? He really wanted to believe Wilson, but everyone else in his life had failed him. Actually, since Wilson had before, everyone had failed him. He did want to trust Wilson, but he didn't think he could that much yet. He just knew Wilson wouldn't hurt him, physically.

"I love you too, Wilson." House said, looking at the ceiling and hoping for his and Wilson's sake that what they had just both said was true.

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**You have to review, partly because I can't be depended upon to update…. No joke. I've all but abandoned my Harry Potter fics. :(**


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